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She turned the wheel, edging into the narrow trough, the grill of the truck right in her side window, so close she could reach out and touch it. They shot past, the sound of the air horn blasting loud behind them. The sedan showed no signs of slowing down on the winding roads, but Karasu was a master driver, even better than some of his teammates, and those guys were elite.
“He’s heading for District Six,” she said, keeping up with the sedan as it weaved in and out of traffic, which was just easing past rush hour. “There are so many people down there, it’ll be easy to get lost in the crowd.” They reached the Rio Seco Bridge and raced over it, still on Route 1 heading for the interchange to enter the central part of La Paz. “Contact the police and let them know we’re in pursuit of NSH minions.” With a burst of speed, they traversed the junctions leading to a cloverleaf, shooting them onto theAutopista La Paz-El Alto, the Heroes of the Chaco War Highway, part of the Bolivian Route 3, traveling fast.
Preacher called the number he was given and the police officer who answered said he would send units as soon as possible.
With a population of eleven million, and tourists adding to the congestion, most of this city was packed with people, therefore a lot of the buildings were residential. But in this part of the district was their downtown, housing major banks and companies, along with principal avenues of the city.Casco Viejowas the historic and ancient center of La Paz with museums, hotels, shops, and municipal buildings, including the mayor of La Paz.
The sniper shot at them again and Karasu changed lanes, riding the slipstream of a truck as cover, then veering back into the lane to keep them in sight.
“They’re exiting,” Karasu called. “Where the hell are the cops?”
Karasu swung the Rover over, trailing behind the sedan as they had to slow down for another cloverleaf, dumping them ontoAvenue Peru. The sedan was going way too fast and when it hit the intersection ofAvenue PeruandChuquisaca, ran the light. Cars screeched and horns blasted as the sedan hit a green car and spun. Karasu braked hard, skidding into a min-van as cars twisted around them. Everything inside the Rover slapped right, including Preacher, his seatbelt pulling tight. The window shattered with a pop, the sparks of metal-to-metal spraying like fireworks. Vehicles collided around them, boxing them in.
Preacher undid his seatbelt and looked over at Karasu. She hit the wheel hard with her hands. “Dammit!”
“You all right?”
“Yes,” she growled, and he was now more worried about taking the terrorists alive. Her look was murderous as she turned sideways and kicked out the glass of the Rover. Climbing out, weapon first, she slid down the hood and hit the ground running. He followed right behind her.
She climbed over cars and debris littering the road in front of them.
Drivers spilled out of cars to rubberneck and shout until the two terrorists started shooting, then bystanders were running the hell away from the metal carnage.
Karasu and Preacher took cover behind a car and fired back. A young family was trapped in a compact car and Preacher motioned them to stay down, then darted behind an empty car to get a better look.
One of the terrorists fled to a ditched motorcycle. Righting the bike, he hopped on it. Fishtailing, the engine revved as he drove downAvenue Peru, weaving in and out of stopped traffic until he was beyond the jam.
“Go!” Karasu said and she hot-footed it to another motorcycle and got onto the bike. Burning rubber, she headed after the driver. Preacher didn’t waste time worrying about Karasu. The Shadowguard was a one-woman wrecking ball. She could handle herself.
Preacher broke into a run, chasing the guy downAvenue Peru, passing Hotel Bolivian Passport, shops, cafes, and restaurants.
He gained on the guy who was pushing civilians out of the way as the street forked, some of them fell to the ground, and Preacher had to hurdle a body or two. They pelted down the street and Preacher grabbed the guy’s shoulder, but he elbowed him in the face, pain exploding in his cheek and eye socket. He shook off the effects and started after the guy again. Up ahead, he could see signs for the Red Line Cable Cars and when the guy ducked into the building, Preacher followed.
The man ran for the stairs, and took them two at a time, then made a hard right, jumping the turnstile and running for one of the open cars, brandishing his gun. People screamed and rushed against Preacher as he tried to gain access to the platform. He shoved his way through and managed to get into the car before the doors closed. The car moved forward, throwing him against one of the two benches on either side of the oblong car.
A shot went wild, punching through the roof, and Preacher gained his footing, grabbing the guy’s wrist. He twisted to get him to release the weapon, but another shot went wild and hit the glass, splintering it.
The terrorist elbowed him in the face, but Preacher took the hit, more pain shooting into his cheekbone and eye socket. It was going to take more than that to make him let go. He grappled with the guy in the small space, big male bodies slamming into glass and the bench seats, grunting, working to get a better hold. Below them was a dizzying drop as they passed over schoolyards, homes with pools, gardens, a church, office blocks, and residential towers in the uniform orange brick, the flat roofs a jumble of cables and antennae. Cars, cabs, and buses raced along winding ribbons of expressway. Every narrow sidewalk was filled with walkers, workers, and students.
The gun discharged again, more cracks in the glass. Preacher twisted harder and the guy finally dropped the weapon. Preacher kicked it under the bench seat. With a howl of rage, the guy grabbed him and threw him against the already splintered window. His back hit the glass and gave way as wind rushed into the small space. Preacher’s only anchor was his hips and legs against the bench seat.
His attacker leaned his full weight into Preacher to try to push him out the window, the small car now swaying on the cable. Recovering, Preacher used all his upper body strength, his legs, and hips as an anchor to push back at the terrorist.
The guy’s hold and momentum broke, and Preacher punched him hard in the face, once, twice, then three times, sending him back into the opposite bench seat. He cracked the back of his head against the glass and slumped into the corner.
Preacher pulled out zip ties and secured his hands, then retrieved the weapon just as the cable car came into the station. There were a half-dozen police standing on the platform and Preacher nodded to them. When the doors opened, he said, “American military. Take this man into custody, get him cleaned up.” He handed the weapon over to a second officer. “There should be a vial inserted into his forearm. Remove it. Once he’s done medically, lock him up, and someone will be there to retrieve him.”
The lead officer nodded and reached for the terrorist. He struggled. “You won’t get anything. Ever.” He spat.
“We’ll see about that.” The man glared, and his eyes said there’d be payback. Not a problem. Preacher wanted some of his own. The officer subdued the guy and hauled him off the cable car, replacing the zip ties with handcuffs.
Preacher wasted no time in moving to the opposite platform to go after Karasu. He tried to get her on the radio, but there was no answer.What are you doing, babe?
* * *
Karasu wason the scumbag who had tried to kill Preacher like a heat-seeking missile. She would extract some retribution for taking her partner. She was worried as hell about him, but she needed to keep her focus narrowed here. The terrorist was just ahead of her as they buzzed downAvenue Peru, passing the Red Line Cable Car station, shops, and a club. She angled around cars, squeezed the motorcycle into places she shouldn’t. The man was never out of her sight. The bike beneath her was just an extension of her formidable command. Machines, vehicles, weapons, targets were all easier to control than her…lust for Preacher.Yeah, let’s stick with that safe word for now.Just the thought of losing him before she’d had a chance to thoroughly enjoy every inch of him only fueled her madness and her rage. It was unreasonable, but she couldn’t help it. Preacher was hers and what was hers she protected, even if he was a lethal, well-trained Navy SEAL.
The asshole pulled off a couple of shots at her, but she weaved to make it harder for him. Traffic snarled and slowed when they hit the shopping mall, but the rider just transitioned to the crowded sidewalk, knocking pedestrians out of the way. They didn’t appreciate the biker’s maneuvers, shouting and fist-waving following in his wake. Then the a-hole found open space and blasted through.
